The Dreams Of Poets and Fools
by r4ven3
Summary: This fic begins during S.7 while Ruth is in exile, and ends early in S.8. Harry acts on the advice of his daughter, and tries to forget Ruth by meeting other women. AU scenario. 2-shot.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I'm having to post a bit quicker than I'm comfortable with, as my muse is still a slave-driver.**_

* * *

It was his daughter who'd proposed he get out more. She'd seen his sadness, and she'd suggested he could do with someone in his life – someone to care for, someone to take his mind off whatever it was had been troubling him. He couldn't tell her that there had been someone – almost – and that he'd allowed her to leave him to go into exile. He hadn't been able to hold on to his hope that they would meet again one day. Such were the dreams of poets and fools, and he was neither …... although he had to confess to having been a fool where she'd been concerned. He'd stood by and allowed her to turn down his second dinner invitation. He'd not come back to her when it was clear she felt strongly towards him, and worst of all, he'd watched as she left the dock in a tug boat, and he'd done nothing at all to stop her leaving. Fool was too light a word to describe his short-comings. Bloody idiot came closer.

Since that day he'd only dipped his toes into attempting to find her, with the hope of bringing her back home one day. His efforts had been desultory and ineffective, and he knew why that was. He was afraid - that he'd not be able to find her, and that if he did, she'd not want to come home …... or worse still, that she would no longer want to have anything to do with him. In his eyes, he had failed her, and she no doubt felt the same.

Catherine was right. He needed someone. He had to move on. It had been two years since Ruth had left, and he wasn't getting any younger. He had a need to do something different. Wallowing didn't suit him.

So for a few months he'd visited wine bars and pubs, where the clientele were mostly under the age of forty. He had a few unsatisfactory one night stands with women almost young enough to be his daughters. He'd leave their beds feeling soiled, predatory, even though he knew that the women had been the predators, with him the one being preyed upon. Women with father compexes, most of them.

It was at a reception for the Chinese delegation that he'd met Alison Andrews. She was part of the security detail based at the hotel where the reception was being held. Late forties, blond, elegant, taller than he when wearing heels, intelligent – but not brilliant – a good listener, and all round lovely person. Harry had attended the function alone, and Alison had had to move around the room alone, her eyes on several things at once, an earpiece in her ear through which she'd listened to conversations of others.

"My Mandarin isn't what it should be," she'd said close to his right ear.

For a moment, he was thrown back in time to another woman – a brilliant one – whose Mandarin _was_ everything it should have been. Harry was about to mention her, before he remembered that he didn't even know where this woman was, or even if she was still alive.

"Perhaps you need to act as though you can speak it well," he'd suggested. "It usually works for me."

"You're suggesting I fake it, then," she'd said, smiling, both of them conscious of the innuendo. Harry had felt a heat beginning in his groin, a good sign in his estimation.

She'd introduced herself, and an hour later, he'd asked her out to dinner the following week. The dinner had gone well, as had the next one and the one after that. After their fourth dinner, Alison had asked him back to her place for coffee, although they both knew that more than coffee was on offer. They had made love in her bed, and he had left first thing in the morning, after they'd both woken, giving himself time to get home to shower and change for work. By the time they'd been seeing one another four months, they had progressed to dinners cooked by Alison in her house, and him staying overnight, and going to work from her place. They were almost an item, but not quite.

By the sixth month, Alison was wondering why she hadn't seen Harry's house. She didn't even know where he lived. She knew what he did for a living, and so understood that there was much of his life which would remain out of bounds to her. She'd even asked him if he was married.

"Whatever made you ask that?" he asked. They were lying in bed in post-coital quiet. His arm was around her shoulders, and she was snuggled against his naked shoulder. Her question had bothered him, leading him to consider getting out of bed, dressing and leaving. He didn't. He and Alison had been seeing one another five and a half months, and so she deserved to hear the truth.

"You've cut parts of yourself off from me, Harry. There is a large part of you which remains out of my reach. I've experienced that before with men, and it's almost always a sign that they're married, or that they are committed to another. I've never seen your house. I've not met your children. I've not met any of the people you work with. Does the woman you love work with you? Does she live with you?"

Harry sighed. He really liked Alison, but he didn't love her, and doubted he'd ever be able to. "I'm not married," he said, "and I live alone. I prefer to come here because I rarely use my house for anything other than sleeping."

Alison did not pursue the subject any further, although she was not convinced. There was a part of him which was always just beyond her grasp. And there was the business of the woman's name he'd called out as he'd climaxed the first time they'd had sex. It hadn't been her name. It had only happened the once. Since then, he was generally quite silent during sex. He was also rather mechanical, like he was making love by numbers. She'd also experienced that before. It meant that the man was trying hard to move on with another woman …... a woman other than the one they wanted.

Alison Andrews was prepared to bet her house and everything in it that Harry Pearce still loved someone who had either died, or who had left him. He was not a man to handle rejection well. It was also clear to her that he didn't love her, and probably never would. Despite that, she enjoyed his company, and was not quite ready to give up on him. She had grown rather fond of him. Most of all, he was a wonderful kisser.

Six weeks later, Harry surprised her by inviting her to the George hotel for drinks and dinner to celebrate the birthday of one of his work colleagues.

"What shall I wear?" she'd asked Harry, suddenly nervous.

"It doesn't matter," he'd said, smiling at her. "You look wonderful no matter what you wear."

Alison had smiled back, recognising that had Harry loved her, he would have added: "But I prefer it when you're wearing nothing at all." He'd never suggested anything like that to her.

It wasn't until they arrived at the hotel together that Harry told her that the guest of honour was a friend of his, and that it was a late birthday celebration for the man's forty-ninth birthday.

"He was away when he had his birthday. It was between Christmas and New Year. He does that every year to avoid a celebration. This time we caught him out. He thinks we're gathering at the pub for a late meeting."

Alison had stood next to Harry, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, when the group of rowdy, but friendly people around her had clapped as the grey-haired man joined them at the table.

"Malcolm, this is Alison Andrews," Harry said, his hand resting on the small of her back. "Malcolm Wynn-Jones. The most honest man I know."

Alison had liked Malcolm on sight. He had a lovely smile, and there was a shyness about him that Harry didn't possess. Harry could be enigmatic and moody, but he was definitely not shy. They talked easily and comfortably, and Harry soon drifted away to join the others.

"Malcolm," Alison said at last, "you've known Harry a while."

"I have, yes. We've worked together for well over ten years. We're not especially close, but we know one another well. Neither of us are easy to get close to."

She saw this as a natural way in. "Tell me if I'm stepping over a line, Malcolm, but I'm finding Harry difficult to reach."

They were sitting at a small table apart from the rest of Harry's team. Harry was holding forth telling stories about some ghastly past operation in which everything had gone wrong. Alison watched him for a short time. He was in his element. This was a side of him she'd not seen, and she suddenly realised that she didn't know Harry at all. Malcolm had also been watching Harry, having noticed that he'd not paid Alison any attention since he and she had sat together by the wall, away from the others. Harry was behaving like a single man, as though he'd forgotten he was there with someone.

"Harry is a complex man," Malcolm began, not wanting to betray Harry's trust – the Spooks Code.

"So I've noticed. Malcolm …... is there another woman in his life?"

"You need to bring this up with him, Alison. His story is not mine to tell."

"I have. He avoids the subject. All he's told me is that he lives alone, and that he's not married."

"That is true, yes."

"But there's more, isn't there?"

Malcolm hesitated, not wanting to betray Harry, but recognising that this woman was an innocent in all this. She deserved answers.

"There is more, yes. You need to talk to Harry about Ruth."

"Ruth. Yes, he mentioned her once."

After they left the hotel, she and Harry went back to Alison's house for coffee.

"You're not staying, are you?" she'd asked him.

"No, I'm not."

"Before you go, will you at least tell me about Ruth?"

Harry lifted his head so fast, his face so dark, that she sat back in her chair. "You called out her name the first time we had sex."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. That was …..."

"You need to tell me about her, Harry. If we're to ever …..."

"If we're to ever what, Alison?"

"If we're ever to be more to one another than fuck-buddies."

"Is that what you think we are?"

"It's not what I think, Harry. It's what I know. Your heart isn't in it."

"I'm sorry you think that way. I still want to keep seeing you."

"Why?"

"Why? I like you, Alison. You're good company."

"Do you enjoy sex with me?"

Harry made the mistake of hesitating. The truth was that he liked Alison a lot, but he sometimes found sex with her to be a chore. That had never before happened to him, and he was hoping it wasn't anything to do with the process of aging. "Most of the time," he said quietly.

"You'll never love me, though, will you?"

Harry sighed. "No. I won't."

"You still love this woman, Ruth."

"I'm not prepared to talk about her."

"Which means yes, you are."

"I think I'd better go," Harry said, rising to his feet. He bent to kiss Alison, and she put her hand around his neck and held his head, while she opened her mouth under his. Harry enjoyed the kiss, and he was tempted to stay, but he needed to go home. He had a busy day next day.

"Ring me when you know what you want, Harry," Alison said, as he opened the door to leave.

Harry looked back at her, and nodded. He liked her a lot. He just couldn't get emotional about her. His emotions were locked away somewhere deep inside him, and only one person in the world held the key to that place.

Harry had planned to ring Alison next day to apologise for his strange behaviour, but he had visited the head of the FSB in London, Viktor Sarkisiian, and had ended up bound and gagged in the boot of a car. Two days later, he was sold on to Indian Intelligence, who took him to a disused warehouse in London, his hands tied, and sat him in a chair.

Then they brought a woman into the room. The woman was Ruth. It had been two years and eight months since he'd seen her, and in the moment he first saw her, he knew that she still owned his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: This is the final installment. Some of this strays into M rating, so be warned._**

**_Thanks to reviewers. Some reviewers mentioned feeling sorry for Alison, which is fine. I do also. _**

* * *

Harry spent the first two weeks after Ruth's return to London trying to not think of her, partly because of the gas crisis, and partly because to do so had the tendency to paralyse him with guilt and grief. She'd been married - a common law marriage – and his own decision had resulted in her husband's murder. He could not regret his decision, but it may have destroyed forever any chance he may have had to win back her regard, and especially her love. His dream of seeing her again had been answered, but the dream had been tainted by tragedy, and Harry hadn't know what to do to heal the rift between he and Ruth.

It had been Jo who had convinced Ruth to come back to work on the Grid, picking up where she'd left off two years and nine months earlier. The tragic death of Jo on Ruth's first day back at work had been shattering for Ruth, and Harry had not known how best to comfort her …... so he chose to avoid the issue. How to comfort a woman whose husband had died due to a decision he'd made, and then whose friend had died – also as a result of a split-second decision he'd made. He was surprised she even spoke to him.

So it was with tightly withheld joy that he'd agreed to go for a drink with her when she'd asked. That had been about the last thing he'd expected, guilty as he still felt about the deaths of George and Jo. Circumstances conspired to prevent them going for that drink, and so ten days later, they still hadn't been. Harry left work quite late, noticing that Ruth had also gone home. As he drove out of the underground carpark of Thames House, he headed towards Alison's house. He wasn't sure why he was going there. He'd only spoken to her by phone a few times, and hadn't seen her since before he'd been abducted by Sarkisiian. If he was being honest, he wanted sex. Sometimes, that was the only thing which could cast out the demons of doubt, guilt and self-hatred, even if only temporarily.

"If you're here for sex, then I'm no longer on the menu," Alison said, rather coldly as she stood in the doorway, holding open the door. "It's been over three months, and now you turn up at 9.30, looking bedraggled and worn, and needy." Alison led him into her sitting room. "I know that Ruth is back."

He stopped in the doorway, shocked by her words. "How did you know?"

"Malcolm and I keep in touch. We really like one another. And before you ask, I'm not seeing him in that way, but I _am_ seeing someone, and that someone values me in a way you never did."

"Did Malcolm tell you …... what happened?"

"That he'd retired, yes. That you had to make a difficult decision? He also told me about that. He suggested that I'd most likely never hear from you again."

Harry looked down at the floor, suddenly shamed - shamed that he'd strung this woman along, shamed that he'd used her for sex, shamed that he'd not been honest with her from the beginning, shamed that he hadn't had the decency to finish it with her long ago. "I'm really sorry," he said, looking across the room at her. "I was a bastard, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were. Just a piece of advice, Harry. If you want your Ruth to love you, don't treat her the way you've treated me."

* * *

Harry was standing at his front door, about to pass the keycard through the slot, when he felt, rather than saw a figure to the left of him. A small figure – perhaps a woman, most definitely not a man – emerged from the shadows. He turned suddenly to come face to face with Ruth. The first thing he noticed was that she was drenched.

"You'd better come inside and get out of those wet things," he said.

Inside the house, he led her into the sitting room, and turned the gas heater on full. It must have rained while he was at Alison's house. He couldn't remember it having rained. For the first time that evening, he looked into Ruth's eyes. As well as being wet, she looked forlorn and sad. He fought an urge to wrap her in his arms, and hold her close to him. Instead, he led her upstairs to the spare bedroom, and showed her the drawers where Catherine had left some of her clothes – just a couple of pairs of track pants, some t-shirts and jumpers. He also gave her two fresh towels, and a spare bathrobe of his own. He was aware that he had no spare women's underwear for Ruth, but didn't know how to address that without embarrassing them both.

"The bathroom is next door. A shower might warm you up. I'll be downstairs warming up some soup for dinner." And then he left her to it.

If he was being honest, having Ruth under his roof under these circumstances was a dream come true. He also knew that he had to tread carefully with her. It was Friday night, and Ruth wasn't needed on the Grid next day, although he had a lot of paperwork pending, and he really needed to be back there bright and early.

The soup was ready to eat, and he'd even heated some bread rolls in the oven when Ruth came downstairs after her shower. She looked very young, her hair pushed back behind her ears, and wearing a pair of track pants and a jumper belonging to Catherine.

"Have you anything I can wear on my feet, Harry? My feet are freezing."

"Sit down and tuck into the soup," he said, before disappearing upstairs.

A few minutes later, he entered the kitchen with some fluffy socks in his hand. "A well meaning Christmas gift," he explained, pulling the socks apart. "Here, let me."

Without thinking about how Ruth might respond, Harry knelt by her chair, and took one of her bare feet between his hands. Noting how cold her foot was, he rubbed his palms across her foot, both the top, and the sole. When he looked up at Ruth, her eyes were wide and bright.

"I'm sorry," he said, and was about to drop her foot, when she touched his shoulder with her hand, and her thumb rested on the skin of his neck, sending shivers through him.

"I like that, Harry. Please don't stop."

He continued rubbing her foot, and when it felt warm under his touch, he slipped one of the socks – gaily embroidered with reindeer – on to her foot, and pulled it up so that it almost reached her knee, and then picked up her other foot, and gave it similar attention. He'd finished rubbing her foot until it was warm, and then he bent his head, and kissed the skin of her inner ankle. He felt Ruth move her hand from his shoulder to his neck, and the movement of her body towards him led him to lifting his head to receive her kiss. Ruth's hands slid around his neck and drew his face closer to hers. Harry let go of her foot, and slid his arms around her waist. He shuffled closer to her, until he was kneeling between her knees. Ruth was in charge of the kiss, and it was wonderful. He had not been kissed like this in such a long time. He wanted to laugh, cry, and call out all at once. When they pulled out of the kiss in order to breathe, neither wanted to end their embrace, but Ruth still had one cold foot, and the soup was cooling quickly.

"We can continue this later," she whispered against his cheek. Harry nodded, and then realised he still held one sock between his fingers, so he grasped her foot, and quickly slipped on the sock.

Not a lot was said while they ate their soup and bread rolls. One would look up at the other, and then quickly look down when they noticed the other was also looking. _This is like the old days on the Grid_, they each thought.

Harry opened a bottle of light red wine, and they sat over that, sipping it slowly.

"What changed your mind?" Harry said at last.

"You're assuming my mind has been changed," Ruth answered enigmatically.

"Something's changed. It seems like only yesterday you could barely tolerate my presence."

"I had to be angry at someone, Harry, and you were the one who'd called the shots that day, so I blamed you. The responsibility for George's death remains with me."

"You're being rather hard on yourself, Ruth."

"I don't think so. That day I was brought in to sit opposite you in that building, you asked me did I love George -"

"And you avoided answering the question."

"Deliberately, too. I didn't want to discuss my feelings for George with you. I think I was so angry with you because it was clear you still loved me as much as …..." Her words faded, as she remembered that horrible day. "I still miss him, you know, but we were not meant to remain together." Ruth took another sip of wine, while Harry waited for her to continue. He could barely breathe. "Around a month ago I had a dream. I was in this open field where there was grass and flowers, and the wind was blowing. I was sitting on the grass, enjoying the sunshine, when I heard George's voice speaking to me. Do you know what he said?"

Harry slowly shook his head, still barely breathing, the moment like crystal - fragile and so easily shattered.

"He told me that he had to die when he did so that I could be free to love you again. He said that his job had been to protect me and to look after me, but he was never meant to fall in love with me, nor I him."

"And did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you fall in love with him?"

Ruth took such a long time to answer that Harry thought perhaps she didn't want to answer that question. After all, he'd asked that question before.

"No," she said quietly, "and part of my guilt over his death is because of that. Had I loved him, at least he would have died for a reason – for love."

They sat across from one another and continued to sip their wine. It was several minutes before Harry spoke.

"I am also carrying some guilt towards a woman I was seeing for over six months. I didn't love her, either, and somehow that makes everything worse."

"You slept with her?"

"Of course. I just couldn't love her. I tried to, but how could I love her when I already loved another?"

"So you understand my guilt over George."

"I believe I do, yes."

"And when you said you loved another, you mean …..."

"I mean you, Ruth. It's always been you."

Blue eyes held hazel eyes for a very long moment. They were each waiting for the other to speak. Harry sighed, hoping she knew what was on his mind. Ruth watched him, hoping he would speak the thoughts she was having.

"I'd like to stay, Harry," she said at last, "and I'm not planning to sleep in the spare room."

* * *

Ruth had settled under the duvet while Harry showered and changed for bed. Wearing only a clean pair of black trunks and a grey t-shirt, he slid into bed, and once he was lying under the duvet, Ruth moved across the mattress to lie beside him, her hip against his side, her chin resting on his shoulder.

"We don't have to act on our feelings tonight, Ruth. If you want to wait a little while."

"Are you tired, Harry?"

"A little, and I'm also rather …... nervous." Harry turned to look at her, fearing she might laugh at him, but she was gazing at him with unconcealed adoration.

Ruth lifted herself on one albow, and reached across to draw his face closer to her own. She leaned towards him, and kissed him, pouring all her love for him into that kiss. She felt his arms reach out and slide around her, drawing her close to him. Ruth tucked her hands around his neck, and turned towards him so that her body pressed against his. As the kiss became more intense, more passionate, they each allowed their bodies to meld, one into the other. Neither was sure where one of them ended, and the other began.

The kiss continued while clothing was discarded, and skin was explored with fingers, and ultimately with lips, tongues, and even teeth. Ruth begged him to push himself inside her, her breasts and belly tight with arousal, just as he appeared to her to be at bursting point. When they joined, it felt timely and right, like they had each been wandering in the wilderness for years, searching for the other.

They moved together, slowly at first, and then with more energy, and even a sense of urgency. When they came, Harry spoke her name freely and with joy, and Ruth's eyes filled with tears as she whispered his name close to his ear. They lay in one another's arms, wordless, for there were no words to describe what they had done together, where they had been, and how unlikely this coming together had seemed only a month earlier.

"I need to ask you, Ruth …... why did you come around here tonight?"

"Because I thought it was time."

"Time?"

"For us to be honest with one another. For us to move beyond denial. For us to grow up. Do you know what I mean?"

"I do."

Harry pulled her against him firmly. Never again would he let her go.

* * *

_8 weeks later:_

Harry was standing at what he considered to be a reasonable distance from the entrance to the ladies toilets in a side alley in the shopping centre. He contemplated for a moment the sheer domestic simplicity of shopping together for a new duvet and duvet cover, something he'd not done with any woman he'd loved before Ruth. He liked plain colours, while she preferred something chaotic and coloured. Harry was prepared to accept stripes or checks, but he drew the line at yellow, orange, blue and green swirls and blotches. Ruth had said he'd get used to it. Somehow, he knew she'd get her way, no matter what his preferences.

"Harry? Is that you?"

He turned to see a tall, elegant woman approaching, followed by an even taller man with short grey hair.

Harry smiled. "Alison. How lovely to see you."

"You look like you're waiting for someone."

"I am. She's taking her time."

"Harry. This is Jonathan Wright. I told you about him last time we saw one another."

Harry shook the hand of this man who had treated Alison so much better than he had. For a moment he felt ashamed – of his behaviour towards her, as well as his disregard for himself. Suddenly, Ruth appeared beside him, and looked at each of the strangers. Harry introduced Alison and Jonathan as `an old friend of mine, and her partner.' He introduced Ruth as, `this is Ruth'. Alison knew the rest.

They exchanged a few more sentences, and then Harry said that he and Ruth still had some turbo-shopping to do, and then they went their separate ways.

"Was that her, Harry?"

"Her?"

"The one you didn't love."

"Yes, it was."

Ruth was silent for a time, as they negotiated the crowds. Harry had to hold her hand lest he lose her in the throng. He just couldn't bear to lose her. Not now.

"I'm glad," she said, once they'd entered another shop which sold bedding and soft furnishings.

"Glad?" Harry stopped, and turned her towards him, his hand still holding hers.

"She seemed rather nice. I thought that if I ever met the woman you saw for all those months, I'd hate her on sight, but I didn't. But I'm relieved you didn't love her."

"So am I, Ruth. Can we crack on? We still have to reach a decision on whether we wish to spend the rest of our lives sleeping under purple, yellow or green, or a combination of all three." Harry wandered further into the shop, and then pointed to a display on a bed, saying, "Something like that. What do you think?"

"That's almost identical to the duvet cover we already have …... the one you've slept under for the past …... how many years is it?"

"It's a good, practical, no-nonsense colour."

"It's navy blue, Harry."

"There's nothing wrong with navy blue."

"Not unless you're a fourteen-year-old, sleeping in a public school dormitory."

"Are we arguing, Ruth? We never argue."

"I prefer to call it a fiery discussion."

They stood in the shop, facing one another, smiling. It was during moments like these that they inwardly pinched themselves. Were they actually together at last? Yes, they were, and wasn't it wonderful. Harry reached down and placed a kiss on Ruth's lips. She kissed him back, smiling.

"It won't work, Harry. I'm not sleeping under checks, stripes, or navy blue."

"You must understand, then Ruth, that there is only one solution available to us."

"Which is?"

"Separate beds."

"I could get used to stripes. Yes, I think I could."

"Liar," Harry said, his mouth against her ear. "What if we call it a night and go for coffee?"

"Good idea. What about our duvet and duvet cover?"

"You choose. I'm obviously not skilled with soft furnishings."

"Okay. What about you? What will you do while I shop?"

"I'll stay on the Grid, and boss people around. I'm good at that."

Ruth planted a quick kiss on his lips. "Yes, my love. You are."

_Fin_


End file.
